Bang
by DeejayMil
Summary: Sometimes, their jobs left them at the wrong end of a gun. They all had different ways of coping with that.
BANG

 _There is no terror in the bang, only in the anticipation of it._

Alfred Hitchcock

 **.**

To live is to observe.

But even the best sometimes fail to do so.

Jason Gideon observed many things that day. He observed the harsh beat of the promise of summer reflecting from the asphalt onto his face and arms. His skin would tan, not burn.

He observed the wilting leaves of the sickening aspen across the highway from the road stop. The tree would be dead in two years without care. It was unlikely to receive care. He mourned that tree, just for a moment.

He observed the call of a hawk from the air above, and smiled because he knew it was a ruse. He saw through it. When he peered about, his eyes met the bright intelligence of the blue jay, azure feathers glinting in the sunlight. He observed the ruse, and the bird returned to its usual call as though understanding that it had been caught.

He didn't observe the man.

He didn't observe the stutter.

The shotgun chambered. He turned and the barrel stared back at him.

All for a simple failure to observe.

 **.**

* * *

 **.**

Elle knew betrayal. She knew the look of it on the people she should be able to trust; she knew the taste of it on the back of her tongue. She'd learned very early not to trust, and her father had taught her that lesson. _"Never trust a man, Peanut. I see the worst of the worst; and the worst of them wear a man's face."_

Then he'd left her for work, and then he'd left her for good. The ultimate betrayal. She'd needed him, and he hadn't returned. Way to hammer home the lesson, Papi.

And she was a woman in a man's world, she knew that. Aaron Hotchner, Jason Gideon, Derek Morgan. Alpha males with their alpha egos. Even Spencer Reid; Spencer Reid with his awkward walk and his silly hair and the dancing fingers that sometimes captivated her imagination, he was still a man. Still rife with the possibility of one day betraying her.

And he did. They all did.

But at that moment, she didn't know that. At that moment she was still secure in the mistaken belief that her team would protect her. After all, if they couldn't protect each other, then what were they even doing? If they couldn't stop the death, the danger, then what was the fucking _point_?

"I told you, it was one rule. One rule!" rasped a nightmarish voice.

She opened her eyes to a gun.

She closed them to betrayal, and there was no one there to protect her.

Elle Greenaway didn't need protection, except when she did.

And there was no one.

 **.**

* * *

 **.**

Norepinephrine. Edinephrine.

Catecholamines produced in a cascade by the adrenal medulla when placed under extreme stress. Also accompanied by hormones: estrogen, testosterone, cortisol; and neurotransmitters: dopamine, serotonin.

The fight or flight response. Also known as; hyperarousal, fight, flight, fawn response, acute stress response.

Simply put, make it simple, if you don't then people will give you _that_ look. The one you hate. The _you're a freak_ look.

The brain sees a threat.

The brain responds to that threat by flooding the body with chemicals to prime them for survival.

In theory, and only in theory because in practise things are rarely so neat, this leads to survival. But not always.

Spencer Reid had several things happen to him at once in that cornfield. More than several, actually, but if he was to list every response in his body that the sight of the dark barrel aimed at his chest caused, he'd probably still be in the cornfield rambling when his team arrived.

He doubted Tobias was going to give him that option though. Of all the probable outcomes of this situation, that wasn't even on the top ninety-five most likely.

He stepped back from his emotions and considered the outcome using the information his body was giving him. Pain. Heartrate. Blood pressure.

He fell. Blunt force trauma to the back of his skull. Possible concussion: incorrect. New data. They called it MTBI now. Possible MTBI. That would slow his cognitive function. Inconvenient.

He turned. Gun barrel. Revolver. Six chamber. Six bullets. Cyclic rate: as fast as Hankel could pull the trigger. Fast enough that Spencer Reid's story might end here.

JJ. JJ would be first responder. Too many variables.

JJ responding, not reacting fast enough. Likely. She's not a trained agent. Shock at seeing him. Shock in general. Too slow. Two agents fall here.

JJ responding, still not fast enough. She's tough. Hankel falls. His team still grieves.

JJ not responding. Profile. Comply. Live.

Fifteen seconds passed.

Spencer Reid took a breath, his first since he'd seen the weapon.

Then he took another.

And he turned every facet of his considerable intelligence to survival.

 **.**

* * *

 **.**

Everything happens for a reason.

 _Everything happens for a reason_ , Penelope thought, bizarrely, to herself, and then he shot her.

She was staring down the muzzle of a gain and how _crazy_ was that? She wasn't the one who got shot, she wasn't the shootee, that was her team (oh god, Pen, don't say that, don't ever say that!) and yet here she was, and here was the gun, and here was the bullet and ow, now there's the bullet and that hurts.

Did Elle feel this? When Randall shot her did she feel this liquid burning and falling, now we're falling, now we're fallen.

Everything happens for a reason.

 _Derek, help me please._

 **.**

* * *

 **.**

Aaron Hotchner felt no fear when he faced down George Foyet's gun. There was no fear in this. Only inevitability.

He'd been on this track since he'd refused the deal, and it was a one way destination.

Here they were. At the finish line.

He looked George Foyet straight in the eyes because if he died here today, Foyet would carry the memory of his stare for the rest of his years. Hotch had no intention of going down flinching.

"You should have taken the deal," Foyet snarled, and Hotch had known he was going to say that.

He knew what came next as well.

Bang.

 **.**

* * *

 **.**

He pressed a gun to her head. She felt the cool metal of it on her skin, felt the cool ice gaze of his eyes on her.

 _Fuck you,_ she snarled inwardly, because inwardly she wanted to shriek at him how much she despised him. _I won't scream, you bastard._

Outwardly she said very little. Outwardly she knew she wanted to survive this night. Outwardly, she knew she probably wouldn't.

Right on the cusp of her death, she knew she wanted to live. For her team, who would be looking for her. For Declan, who would be in danger if she couldn't protect him. For Sergio, because he was the cleverest cat in the world but he still couldn't work a can opener.

Emily Prentiss looked death in the eyes and she told it to get fucked. Not out loud, because that would reduce her chances of survival. And that was thinking like Spencer, he'd be so proud.

If she ever got the chance to tell him.

Ian Doyle rammed half a fucking tree into her gut, and still she did not die.

She screamed in the end, but she still counted it as a win.

 **.**

* * *

 **.**

He had a gun, but she didn't care about that. If it wasn't for Will and Henry, she'd almost be thankful. She'd almost want to die here.

She told them the code.

She wanted to live.

She wanted to live almost as much as she wanted to die.

JJ hung in that nightmare until her team reached down and scooped her out, and all she thought of was her baby boy's arms around her neck.

 _I'm coming home,_ she thought.

And she did.

 **.**

* * *

 **.**

"You're right. You'd be a big deal in prison for killing a federal agent. A legend if you killed two."

David Stephen Rossi lowered his gun.

Donnie Mallick raised his.

And Rossi smiled. Because now he was a fed facing down the barrel of a gun and waiting for the bang. Standard procedure.

He raised his gun, and he was faster. Of course he was. He'd known he would be.

The bang was his.

And Jason Gideon's killer died with his bullet in his skull. Self-defence. Justified.

Love was irrational.

And this would never stop hurting.


End file.
